


All the pieces that finally fit

by gaytriangle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8.02, A pipedream fic, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ball, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Season/Series 08, Spoilers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wedding, You can read this as Jenny of the oldstones based, but why would you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 13:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytriangle/pseuds/gaytriangle
Summary: The War for the Dawn is over. At the ball thrown to celebrate survival, Sansa watches the happiness in the air and finds thankfulness for it for the first time.It’s an 8.02 based fic, you know what you’re here for.





	All the pieces that finally fit

**Author's Note:**

> The original title and premise was entirely based on Sansa dancing through crowds of ghosts, and then I remembered I liked feeling happiness. If you like sadness, feel free to read it that way, or just enjoy the fluff.

Far, far above the castle, the sky was painted with swathes of colourful fire. Green and red cartwheels danced across the sky as easily as the ladies danced below, both glittering and gaudy and loudly joyful. Fireworks, someone had called them, as bright and glimmering as dragon fire. 

They were the only dragon fire left to the living, now. Sansa took a hand in hers with two fingers missing, spinning around the dance floor like she and Theon were still the sweet summer children they were so long ago. He had a thick cut to his cheek that drew one half of his mouth up in a permanent smile, but the other matched it with ease. When Sansa rested her head on his shoulder, she could feel the cold coming from it as easily as she could feel the warmth from his heart beating perfectly in time with hers. 

“It’s good to see you again, Lady- Sansa,” he said. Her heart skipped a beat whenever he said her name, an unbearably girlish impulse she only tolerated because it was him, Theon, with a bashful smile and a half stutter courtesy of Ramsay he was only now working through. “The dresses look wonderful, although I would still rather you spent the time with me.” 

Sansa swatted his arm gently, and was rewarded with no flinch, no reaction, just the same soft amusement in his eyes. They were recovering, bit by bit. “We needed something to do, after the battle. Ballgowns are excellent for morale.”

“Certainly for mine,” he said, in a slightly uncertain voice, but Sansa’s radiant smile was even more beautiful when he said the sweet nothings that another Theon would have plied women with, and that was more than enough to make Theon sure of himself. He would do almost anything to see the Queen of Winter smile again. 

They swirled through the dance floor, passing Missandei and Grey Worm, Jon and a ginger that she vaguely knew, Gilly and Sam, and Jorah escorting his niece. Sansa nodded at them all, before gesturing to the one couple that certainly benefited from the rushed sewing lessons she had held in the crypts of Winterfell in the dying hours of the First Dawn. 

Arya Stark, covered in blood that was most certainly not her own and bearing a Needle that couldn’t sew a stitch, had sat in on the second session. She had gone slightly red in the face as she tried to ask for instruction on sewing the Baratheon stag. It had done more to mend the bond between sisters than anything except, perhaps, that very first execution of Baelish where they had worked in perfect tandem. (The flush to Aryas face had soothed Sansas soul more than she could say. It said that her sister was still in there, somewhere, and she could take death cult madness and Baratheon bastards if that stayed true.)

Speaking of blushing no longer maidens and Baratheon no longer bastards, Gendry looked positively resplendent in the Stark grey doublet he had begged from the sewing circle girls. If Sansa could have any moment in the aftermath painted, it would be the twin faces of embarrassment and fondness as Gendry and Arya both realised they had turned up to the ball in the others’ colours. 

Arya, Needle at her hip and riding boots on her feet, had burst out laughing. Gendry looked positively offended for half a moment until he began to laugh just as loud. Someone had clearly taught him how to ask for a dance with a sharp bow and a smile, however, because Sansa had known many kings that couldn’t look that gallant. “M’lady, will you honour me with a dance?”

Arya raised her eyebrows, but played along with mischievous glee in her eyes. “Well, my lord, if you want your feet stomped on for an hour or two, I’d hardly be the one to deny you.”

Gendry had the face of someone who had suddenly realised their leg was caught in a bear trap, but took her arm anyway. “I’m no ones lord, Arya.”

“Of course you aren’t. My lord,” she said. Their first dance was entirely made up of one trying to stomp on the feet of the other with joy on both faces. Sansa wouldn’t have it any other way. 

She was under no illusion that they were somehow reformed into the kind of couple a Septa would approve of, and she didn’t think they ever would, either. It brought a smile to her face, and the first pricking of tears into Theons shoulder. Things were turning out fine. 

“My lady? Are you quite alright?” Even if Sansa didn’t recognise the voice, there was only one woman in Winterfell who’s voice could come from that far above her head. Lady Brienne, looking more comfortable in her white wedding armour than Sansa had ever seen her, was nonetheless awkwardly hovering by her elbow. 

She let out a breathy laugh as Theon placed a kiss on her cheek and went to speak to Yara, who was still trying to woo the stony dragon queen. “I’m quite fine, Ser Brienne. Is it time already?”

Brienne always seemed rather shocked when people addressed her by her rank, and even more so when they addressed Podrick by the rank she had given him. She was gradually getting faster at breaking out into a grin everytime Sansa pointedly called her by her title. Maybe she’d be used to it by the time Summer came, at this rate. “It- it is, m’lady, if you’d follow me.”

The godswood was beautiful. Fresh fallen snow covered any trace of spilled blood, even if the weirwood leaves were an uncomfortably similar colour. The Sept had been offered, but declined by all parties. It was only right to do this here. 

Brienne and Sansa situated themselves by the tree, nodding to Tyrion, who went to fetch the bridegroom. Brienne, understandably, wanted the exact opposite of the flashy Southron wedding she had always feared. The party in the godswood was small: Podrick and, inexplicably, Tormund stood to Briennes side to wish her well. Jaime had brought the newly reformed Bronn and his brother. Bran was present mainly because no one had been able to get him to agree to leave the Godswood, and he claimed to be Sansas entourage. All the best for the Queen in the North, or as the minstrels were beginning to call her, the True Queen of Winter. 

This was the first wedding after the battle, but probably not the last. Tormund softly weeping was the only sound as Brienne swept the Lannister cloak off of Jaimes shoulders. The soft love in the newly married couples eyes was worth more to the group than they could really say. They had won, unequivocally, and this was their prize. 

Sansa let tears truly race down her cheeks for the first time, utterly ignored as the new Ser and Ser Tarth seemed to glow in each other’s presence. She never wanted to leave this moment.


End file.
